


Hotte Cyning Sumer

by secace



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Life of Gildas (Llancarfan)
Genre: M/M, but also. doesnt arthur deserve to be a dilf??, i think he might, i uh, this is a joke dont. bully me, turgid and unintelligable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace
Summary: “Gildas the Wise is coming to Britain,” Queen Guinevere told him, perusing the important letters addressed to her husband.“Uh-huh,” King Arthur said, reclining in his bed and only kind of listening.“They say his intellectual equal has never been seen, nor has there been a man of more piety and grace since the lamb of God Himself.”“That’s nice,” Arthur said, wondering what and where breakfast was happening.
Relationships: Arthur Pendragon/Saint Gildas
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	Hotte Cyning Sumer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reynier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reynier/gifts), [aggravain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aggravain/gifts).



> idk read life of the saints and vibe with me. blame discord.

“Gildas the Wise is coming to Britain,” Queen Guinevere told him, perusing the important letters addressed to her husband. 

“Uh-huh,” King Arthur said, reclining in his bed and only kind of listening.

“They say his intellectual equal has never been seen, nor has there been a man of more piety and grace since the lamb of God Himself.”

“That’s nice,” Arthur said, wondering what and where breakfast was happening.

“You killed his brother last year, Hueil, remember? The one conducting border raids from Scotland? Gawain refused to do anything because he thought it was funny?”

“Oh, yeah. Huh.”

“Arthur,” Guinevere said meaningfully. 

“Yes?”

“You killed his brother and he’s coming here, soon.”

He blinked. “Ah. That’s not-- good.”

Guinevere replaced the letters on his writing desk and rose, her hair loose and flowing down her back. “We don't need any more bad press. Whatever Gawain did to get the pope on our side, we can't have this man ruining it.” 

“I am aware,” Arthur responded defensively, “I will be very contrite and pious. I can build a church and dedicate it to him, one with lots of gold and marble and-- no? Your expression is indicating no.”

It was. “He despises material wealth and ostentatious displays. He dresses and lives plainly. I would not attempt to ply him with gifts and finery.”

“Noted. You are my most reliable political adviser, as always Guin,” Arthur admitted, finally sitting up and considering getting dressed.

“I know. That’s why you married me,” Guinevere smiled and swept from the room. It was true, she was a political genius and he would be lost without her. And after over a decade of marriage, she was even his friend. Or at least friendly acquaintance. And nothing else, which was fine, except for the conceptual humiliation of having his sister steal his wife, which after a decade he was mostly recovered from.

Preparations were launched to Catholicize Camelot. It was a difficult task. What wasn’t opulent, slutty or multicoloured was pagan or a tool of death. Gawain, being all of those things, was sent out on a well-timed quest to somewhere far away, and helpfully took Lancelot with him. Which left only the rest of them to cause problems.

The remaining Orkneys, they hoped, would be scared away by the prospect of self-improvement, though he did have a long talk with Mordred about Please Please Be On Your Best Behaviour, and I'm Really Sorry Again About The Drowning I Was A Dumb Teenager And A Wizard Peer Pressured Me. This had a lukewarm effect which was somewhat bolstered by his third and final attempt, I Will Give You Many Material Goods In Exchange For Not Doing Arson For Just One Week, which seemed to get the point across.

Guinevere had led the rest of the ladies in finally reading the bible, and was trying to instruct some of the most difficult members of the court on its intricacies, like “murder is bad,” and “at least pretend to be a virgin,” neither of which were going over well, though the closure of the wine cellar certainly had a hand in the low morale.

Bors was the only one having any fun, broken only by his frequent asides in regard to how unhappy Galahad would be when he found out he missed the whole affair, having reluctantly allowed himself to be shipped off to Brittany a month prior to do something or other in Benoic. The rest were regretting his absence as well, though mostly in the selfish way that told them if he was front and center maybe no one would look at their own flaws very closely.

Arthur tried to feel contrition. He had used to feel it all the time. When he was young it seemed he couldn’t turn around with feeling the need to say sorry for it. What had changed? He looked around his opulent private chambers. Oh, right. The absolute power and the crushing weight of responsibility which he had, at some point, become completely numb to. Hm.

“Guinevere, am I a bad person?”

“Huh?” she looked up from her book and gave him an assessing glance. “Yeah, I would say so. Why?”

Arthur gaped, “You were supposed to say no!”

“Ah. Then no.” She returned to her book. Somehow Arthur wasn’t convinced.

After a long moment of unhappy silence, she sighed, closed her book and put it aside, sitting up in her chair. Clearly, this was not something so easily dismissed.

“Fake it till you make it, right? How about you pretend to be a good person, impress this monk, and then eventually if you pretend long enough it will be indistinguishable from real goodness of heart. How’s that?” 

He nodded, slowly. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Excellent. Unless you have another crisis of conscious, I will be going. See you tomorrow morning.”

“Bright and early, I know. Thank you, Guinevere.” 

She stood and walked over to the full-length mirror, knocked thrice, then stepped through, presumably stepping out the other side somewhere in Morgans castle or dark lair or cottage or wherever his sister lived. 

Still not entirely happy with the state of his soul, Arthur retired, hoping that if he was a bad person, this Gildas wouldn’t notice.

As he promised Guinevere, he rose with the sun, a feat he hadn’t managed since they were last on a campaign. Guinevere stepped back through the mirror, her hair already drawn up, dressed modestly in a fine but unelaborate off-white and dusty blue gown.

“Good morning, Arthur. You should shave.” For some reason, she had got it in her head that Christians were as a rule clean-shaven, probably because Bors was but possibly due to some or other obscure bible verse.

“Good morning Guinevere. And I won’t, but thank you.” Arthur felt that patchy stubble made him look rugged and was, overmore, the only thing he had going for him. 

She rolled her eyes. “Very well. Take off the cloak, it’s a different sort of fabric from the rest, and you aren’t permitted that as per the bible.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t know that. Should I take off the braies as well? They’re linen and the rest--”

“I doubt he will be seeing those, Arthur.”

“Oh.” He nodded, removed the offending cloak. “Right.”

Preparations were coming to a head in Camelot, as they prepared for what scouts estimated to be a midday arrival. Everyone was cleaning, praying and agonizing over every choice, and hiding the more risque tapestries.

Kay informed his brother that the only thing he was doing at the moment was getting in the way, and Arthur took the hint. He had a horse saddled and set out from Camelot, planning to be back long before terce. He was not dressed finely, nor wearing a crown, and since Gawain had Excalibur at the moment, he girded on a normal blade, unadorned.

It was a fine morning, spring rapidly sliding into summer, but with the early morning breeze still sweet and cool. He hadn’t seen any terrifying beasts or maidens with enchanted items for nearly a whole hour, and the ride seemed to be promising to pass unremarkably, as he slowed the horse down to a walk to pass through a thicket.

“Excuse me, my Lord, but could I trouble you just a moment?”

Arthur tugged on the reins and came to a halt, scanning his surroundings. “What can I do to help you, stranger?”

“I was wondering how far we are from the court of King Arthur,” the voice asked, and then Arthur saw him. There was a man sitting in the shade of an oak tree, dressed in thin and worn garments, plainly cut.

“Not far at all,” Arthur answered, guessing this was a labourer, coming to Camelot in search of work, as many did. “It is less than an hours ride from here, you could make it by noon.”

“Thank you, Sir,” the man said, and chuckled ruefully. “I was travelling with a few others, but I’ve gotten separated from them. I had planned to reach Camelot by midmorning, but the day has grown warm and I have grown older than I thought. A man need not fall far on the wrong side of three score and ten to feel the sting of it, need he not?”

“No,” Arthur heartily agreed, “It seems awfully unjust.”

“Ah,” The man sat up, wily energy appearing to animate him from nothing, “What is the justice of seniority? Be it engendered by the gradual attainment of sin, the putrefaction by degree of our souls reflected in their abodes?”

“Er- it may very well,” Arthur struggled. 

The main raised a finger. “But Sir, if that is true why then do all men age in conjunction, rather than at rates to follow their actions which bring the life winter down upon them, the snow turning alabaster their hair, ice bringing phlegmatic temperament and arresting locomotion. Rather, does it stem from the severed stem of the fruit, exempli gratia, the fruit of progonikon hamartema, and thus why all, virtuous and vile, are curtailed to three score and ten?”

“Huh,” said Arthur, feeling as if this was a test he was failing. Seeing this, the man dropped his hand, almost sheepish. “My apologies sir, I rambled on. I have been told that I am at times, as it were, turgid and unintelligible.”

“No, no. I am sorry, for not understanding.” Arthur did not know who this man was, but he seemed very clever, and anyone clever was worth knowing. “If you were overcome by the warmth of the morning, you must want something to drink. I have a wineskin…?”

“I think,” the man said with a small smile, “that should be quite restorative.”

Arthur dismounted and left the horse to wander, taking a seat in the grass beneath the tree next to the man and passing him the wineskin. Up close, he noticed a fine bell attached to the man’s belt and wondered at it.

It is, of course, easy to say that Arthur should have realized who he was speaking to. But he had formed a very strong idea of what Gildas The Wise would look and act like, and this man was nothing like it. 

Gildas The Wise was incredibly old, who spoke not but the word of the lord, and whose eyes, milky with age and sharp with sanctimonious judgement, saw every sinful thought of those unlucky enough to fall upon them and did not hesitate a moment to make them known.

This man, in contrast, despite his obfuscatory remarks about threescore and ten, was younger than Arthur was, temples just barely brushed with grey. He was solidly built, as if one used to hard work, arms tanned from the sun and muscular, with dark curly hair framing a worn but handsome face. His words were polysyllabic but the tone was friendly, eyes warm brown, bright with intelligence but without any aspect of judgement.

“Would you explain your point again? I think I’ve almost got it,” Arthur asked, watching the man take a swig from the wineskin, noticing how the dark purple wine stained his lips red, then noticing that he should not be noticing that, and making a careful study of the trees across the lane.

“Not a point, Sir, mere conjecture. As to whether old age comes to us from God as punishment for sins in life or for progonikon hamartema, the original sin of Adam. I suppose again it could be some other cause entirely.”

Arthur considered the question. He wanted very much to have an answer, to impress this man, but could not find one that had not been already brought up. “I suppose I never considered the question. Age is just something that happens, like sunset and winter.”

“Oh! An interesting conjecture, Sir,” the stranger said, eyes alight.

“It was? I mean, yes,” Arthur stumbled, as the man passed him back the skin, and Arthur took a tentative sip. It seemed oddly intimate suddenly, to share the wine this way.

“Yes, that cyclically as come the seasons does God decree the body must move to winter and icy end. Is this too, as natural philosophy would hold, an expression of Aristotle’s proscribed revolutions of the celestial realm? Does the body grow lethargic, the hair grows achromic, from the pull of planetary bodies, is threescore and ten the charge of a distant star which, overlooking our birth, brings us inexorably also to egress?”

Arthur puzzled over this new statement for a few beats, the other waiting patiently for his response. 

“You are saying… or rather I was saying, that the planets make us get older? Well, why did God make the planets do such a thing? No, I was quite wrong.”

“Maybe so, but the object is not necessarily to find an answer, merely to exercise one’s mind to consider the mysteries.”

“Oh, well, a good job both of us then. That’s done neatly,” Arthur said, passing back the wineskin, and feeling very accomplished at the mans small huffed laugh at this comment. A companionable silence fell, and nothing could be heard but the warbling of bird and the occasional shuffle of leaves in the warm breeze, and the leisurely clop of a horses hoof as the beast grazed by the side of the road.

But Arthurs thought fell again to the expected visitor, who he regrettably had to depart soon to see.

“You see to be a very learned man, stranger. So I will ask you, how does one become a good person?”

The man looked at him, intrigued. “An interesting question, sir, on which there are many schools of thought both theological and practical. But if you want what I think is my own opinion, in simplest terms, it is thus: Do the best you can to make choices that do not bring harm to others, and when you fail, make recompense, to the best of your ability, and fix what harm you’ve done that can be fixed.”

“It sounds very simple when you put it like that,” Arthur said.

“Well, they say the devil is in the details. Still, it is a good place to start.” The man paused. “You have a look about you like you must be going.”

Arthur was surprised. “Er-yes, I do, I'm afraid. Thank you for the conversation.”

He rose, waving off the mans attempt to return his now mostly empty wineskin. “Keep it, the morning is still warm and it will be several hours walk.”

The man thanked him, and Arthur collected his horse, and rode swiftly back to Camelot, hoping he had not missed the monk, but finding he could not regret how he had managed his time. He arrived long after terce, to find that he had beaten their visitor. 

They waited for several nervous, and on Arthurs part distracted, hours, in the gardens. Finally, a message boy burst onto the scene to announce that Gildas the Wise and several attendants had arrived at the gates and been admitted. The court assembled at the doors to the main hall, Arthur and Guinevere at the front, with Bishop Baldwin just beyond and to the side, the rest assembled inside the open doors.

People left their houses or peered from windows in the streets, their shouts and loudly sung hymns marking the slow progress of the party through Camelot. The first which could be heard were small bells ringing, as they came into view, several men in the clothes of monks, a few attendants to those men, and in front of them a plainly dressed, damnably familiar figure.

“Stop making that face,” Guinevere said under her breath.

“I know this man,” Arthur responded frantically, trying to affect an expression of regal calm and failing.

“Fuck,” she whispered, then grew silent as they were almost close enough to hear.

The party of Gildas the Wise drew up to that of the Pendragons and halted.

“My lord King Arthur,” Gildas acknowledged. If he was at all surprised, he didn’t show it.

He had words he was supposed to say. What were they? Oh no. Guinevere elbowed him.

“I would- oh, I. Sir. I- I welcome you and, and would beg your forgiveness,” he managed, stalling. “I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee and- and I detest my sins most sincerely because they displease Thee.”

No one was telling him to stop so Arthur continued the prayer, hoping God would answer his other, unspoken prayer to be turned into a squirrel or a fish or something. “my God, Who art so deserving of all my love for Thy infinite goodness and most amiable perfections: and I firmly-- firmly purpose by Thy holy grace never more to offend Thee, uh.”

“I see My Lord,” Gildas spoke, “that your contrition is earnest, and you desire your own betterment. Therefore, let me give you with thus my forgiveness,” and with that, he took a deliberate step forward and pressed a wine-dark kiss to Arthur’s lips.

He returned it, gratefully, though he was not sure he was meant to. Later, Guinevere would comment knowingly that there certainly seemed to be a great deal of forgiveness on both sides. Gildas ended this before it could be defined as an incident, and stepped back.

Many polite and preprogrammed words and sentiments were exchanged, of which Arthur was not remotely conscious. There was a feast, maybe, though a very modest and plain one if indeed it occurred, for the sake of religious sensibilities.

Whether or not there was a feast, there was surely an after the feast, for Arthur offered the great honour of personally showing Gildas to a set of rooms. 

“I am afraid it may be finer that you wish,” Arthur said apprehensively, “we do not live as plainly as we should. I-” he paused, then bravely pushed on. “I would have to beg your forgiveness.”

“My Lord, I will grant it,” said Gildas, and did so, with a chaste kiss. Arthur lingered by the unopened door, trying to remember other sins of his. There were a great many, surely. “Yesterday I took the lords name in vain. Forgive me?”

“I do,” said Gildas, and kissed him again. “Do you have a great many sins to be forgiven?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so,” Arthur admitted, smiling tentatively. 

“We had better keep going through them then.,” Gildas smiled in return and opened his own door. “What is next?”

“Uh-” It was going incredibly well so far, Arthur thought, might as well try his luck. “I'm wearing two different types of fabric.”

Gildas looked him up and down. “I dont see that, My Lord.”

“Well, I would have to show you.”

“Ah,” Gildas realized, taking his hand and leading him into the room. “You had better do that.”

The door shut.

  
  
  
  



End file.
